If Dreams Come True
by R.N.Walker
Summary: Italy and America stumble upon England's new spell and cast the charm that lets them see their wildest dreams come to life. Unfortunately, there's a reason one must always be careful for what they wish for. Now being hunted by the very monsters found only in nightmares, can the duo survive long enough to lift the spell?
1. If Dreams Come True

_At last! I'm so happy to finally be posting this fanfic. Just a few quick things before we begin:_

_1. As a reminder—this story is a standalone story and is not the sequel to "Hetalian Creepypastas"_

_2. These chapters are long. And they will only keep getting longer_

_3. For a fun added challenge, try to guess which creepypasta(s) each chapter is based on. Not all of them will be obvious, and some chapters will contain more than one creepypasta._

_And lastly…_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted characters in any shape or form. All Hetalia characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. All characters, themes, and ideas based on the following creepypastas belong to their respective owners.<strong>

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><p>Another day, another meeting completely ruined by the nonsensical shenanigans the Nations caused. At least this time it didn't end with England and France trying to murder each other nor too many instances of Russia wanting to "become one with everybody". Perhaps this was progress…<p>

…Or perhaps not. Italy was snoring contently as most of the other Nations rose and left the room. Germany sighed, slightly annoyed. He'd much rather go out and eat brunch at some New York café right now than wait for the Italian to wake up. But he had promised his friend he'd spend the rest of the day with him after the meeting. Of course, once Italy did wake up he'd probably insist on eating at that pizzeria they'd passed on the way here. It looked like either way was a lose-lose situation for Germany.

"Hey dude! What's up?" America came up, grinning as he watched the German's irritation level rise. He quickly spotted Italy, though, and, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, pounced on the sleeping man. Italy awoke with a shout.

"Yaaah! Wha—!? Don't hurt me, please! I'm sorry! If I did anything wrong; I didn't mean to!"

America laughed. "Relax, Italy. It's just me. Man, you're way too easy to scare!"

"You should talk, America," Germany retorted irately, "You and your insistent need to play Japan's horror games have left you unable to go to sleep. Then we have to put up with your stupid chatting about it during the meetings. Not to mention the number of times Japan had to stay up late to keep you compa—"

"So are you guys going out to eat soon?" the American cut him off, "'Cause I'm thinking hamburgers for brunch. What do you say?"

"Oh, but I'd really like to try out that pizza place down the street," answered Italy. Germany groaned.

"Then how about this: There's a café some ways down we can go to that serves both. Plus it's got lots of other stuff; I'm sure Germany wouldn't mind." The German blinked, legitimately surprised the younger man was being considerate about where to eat.

"Really?"

"Yeah! It just opened and I want to try it out."

"Sounds like fun," beamed Italy.

"_Ja_. I suppose that will do."

"Great! Just need to find England first; he said he'd tag along."

"Really?" Germany asked again, this time with skepticism. America shrugged.

"Well, maybe those weren't his exact words, but I'm pretty sure that's what he meant."

"Somehow I doubt that," muttered Germany, but he let Italy join America in his search for the Englishman. The two were eager to eat, so they scoured through all the nearby rooms, the lobby, even the restrooms and downstairs hall. But somehow they couldn't find the man.

"Perhaps he went back to the conference room?" Italy suggested.

"Maybe. Let's check." They raced each other back upstairs, dashing to the meeting hall and banging the door open. "England! We've been looking every—huh? He's not in here." Indeed, there was no soul present within the room. Italy and America stepped inside, scanning the room for any clues. Papers were still strewn all over the large, circular table. A few wrappers from food snuck in littered around some of the seats. America didn't look remotely guilty about spotting the paper airplane still crumpled against the chair Canada had been sitting in during the meeting. "Where is that old man?"

"Hey! Look, America." The American turned to where Italy was pointing. A satchel containing some worn, leather books was shoved under the table. They instantly recognized them as England's once they approached it. So the Nation had been reading while they were discussing very important business? America snorted. It didn't matter; England clearly forgot them and would soon be coming back to retrieve them. "Why don't we give these to England once we find him? I'm sure he'd appreciate it," Italy suggested. America nodded in agreement, snatching the bag. In his haste, however, several of the books tumbled out.

"Ah great. He really should have closed this better." He and Italy knelt to gather the fallen items. "Wow, these are old. Careful not to tear the covers or we won't hear the end of it from him."

"Oh no! I think a page fell out!" Italy panicked, picking up a piece of brown paper. America took the page from his hand, inspecting it.

"Nah, this is England's handwriting. I don't think it was in a book to begin with. Hmm! I didn't know he still liked writing on these parchment things." He looked closely at the sheet. "Whoa…is this really what one of those spells he keeps talking about looks like? Looks more like ancient poetry to me."

"A spell? Can I see?" He peered over the taller man's shoulder. "_Vestram Videre Somnia Flagrans._"

"See Your Wildest Dreams," the blond roughly translated. The Italian looked at him.

"You know Latin?" America blushed slightly in embarrassment.

"Um…England made me read some when I was younger. But forget about that; I can't believe he actually wrote this. And it looks kinda useful. Well, maybe not 'useful,' but definitely something interesting."

"I wonder what counts as a wild dream," pondered Italy. "Maybe it's our greatest desire."

"Or maybe it lets us see the future and all the awesome things we'll do," laughed the other man.

"Yeah! That would be cool." A pause. "Hey, America, do you want to try it out?" America nodded his head enthusiastically, grinning in excitement. He quickly put down the bag and studied the paper once more, trying to decipher the scribbles.

"Let the heart release its contents, overflowing the mind and soul with thoughts locked away. The one—no, wait—_ones_ whose names I chant shall see their wildest dreams come to life." He paused dramatically for effect. "America and Italy!" America yelped in surprise as the text on the page shone with a sinister red light. Almost immediately afterward, a wave of nausea hit the duo, and Italy almost proceeded to heave from the sudden upsetting feeling.

"What…what was that?" he gasped. America groaned in pain, clutching his stomach. Slowly did the strange illness ebb away, but it left behind a forming headache. It wasn't too bothersome, more than bearable to be frank, but the constant distant pain made the room swirl. What in the world was going on?

Though his vision was altered, America's hearing worked just fine, and he picked up the noise of brisk footsteps heading their direction. He reacted quickly and stuffed the spell paper in his jacket pocket just as England appeared in the doorway. The latter started upon seeing them, surprised as his gaze shifted to the items in their arms. "What are you two doing with my books?"

"England! We've been looking for you." America zipped over to the man and trapped him in a strangling bear hug. "You shouldn't make the hero wait, you know. You were supposed to wait up for me."

"Ack!" the Brit gasped, struggling to escape the constricting embrace, "Why should I have? I was going home, you twat. Now let me go!"

"But you promised," frowned America as he released the Englishman.

"I did no such thing."

"Yes you did. I asked earlier if you wanted to go out and eat with me. You said, and I quote, 'Oh yes, because I would much rather eat out with you than get some desperately needed rest at the hotel.'"

"That's called sarcasm, you idiot!"

"Then you should have said so sooner." America had his smile plastered on his face again as he grabbed England's arm and began dragging him out of the room. England fought back, but he was no match for the iron-like grip.

Italy chuckled lightly as he followed behind them despite his mind being on other things. Such as why the headache he was having hadn't yet disappeared. It was ever so slowly gaining in intensity actually, making him more than a little concerned. And if that wasn't enough there was also the sudden shift in his mood to deal with. Italy frowned. Wait…when exactly had his emotions changed? Wasn't he excited just a second ago? Why now did he have this…odd feeling? He wasn't _sad_, he was…what was it? Anxious? No, he had no future plans other than spending the afternoon with Germany; nothing to be anxious about. Confused? That would have been caused by the strange headache, not anything else he could think of. Paranoid? Like he was being watched…?

"There you two are." Germany was already waiting for them in the front lobby once they returned downstairs. Italy dashed over and latched onto his friend's arm. He put on a smile just for him.

"Ve~! Let's go, Germany!" Germany immediately tried to push the man off, but hugging and not letting go seemed to be the one thing Italy was able to beat Germany at. America quickly took the lead, still pulling England along by the arm, and the four stepped out into the bright, sunny New York City. America guided his friends down the various streets, pointing out some of his favorite buildings. Italy smiled politely as he looked around; he was hardly interested in what the man had to show them. His mood was plummeting, his headache getting worse, and he wondered how in the world America was still so cheery. He'd been suffering with him earlier, so shouldn't he be experiencing the same symptoms?

Amber eyes narrowed slightly to observe. On the surface, America behaved as animatedly as he normally did. But his grin…there was something slightly off. Italy couldn't identify it, but something about it seemed fake, forced even. And it was very hard to catch it with America pointing around and turning to face everything but…his eyes…they were shifting constantly, narrowing ever so slightly for a few seconds, lingering a millisecond longer on each and every alleyway or obstruction they passed. Those weren't the eyes of someone sightseeing; they were the eyes of someone scouting. Searching. But why?

"Ngh…" A sudden throb of pain in his head made his world spin, and the Italian tried shaking away the feeling.

"Italy? Are you okay?" Germany looked down at him. His eyebrows were slightly raised in alarm.

"Y-yes sir," the Italian flashed him another smile. "I'm okay, just a little dizzy. Probably because I haven't had any pasta today. I think I'll have that instead of pizza." Germany nodded, England sighed, and America let out a booming laugh. Italy briefly mused whether he was the only one to notice how hollow it sounded.

It wasn't much later they finally reached the café. They were seated at an outdoor table and told that a waiter would be with them shortly. By this point, Italy was leaning against Germany's shoulder, feeling quite drained of energy. The pain in his head seemed to have increased tenfold. Yet he tried to play it off, pretending to be snuggling against his best friend. Thankfully, Germany did little to get him off.

"America, get your head off the table," growled England. The boy was very reluctant to lift his head out from his folded arms.

"Tired," came his worn voice.

"Well that's no reason to act improperly in public," England scolded, "And what's come over you anyway? Usually you're bouncing up and down until the waiter arrives. Don't tell me you're ill." A pause and then America lifted his head, grinning energetically.

"Me? Sick? Dream on. I was just thinking about where to show you guys around to next."

"That's total bullocks! You just said you were tired. And we're not touring your city either. Just because we're staying in your country a little longer than normal doesn't mean we have any plans to sightsee. I'm leaving for home as soon as the meeting tonight is over."

"Aw, can't you spend the night like Germany and Italy?" America teased.

"Hardly."

"By the way, America," Italy interrupted, his voice lacking its usual enthusiasm, "We didn't get to thank you properly for letting us spend the night at your house. So _grazie_."

"We wouldn't have to be spending the night at his house at all if you'd paid more attention to our departure time," Germany reprimanded him.

Italy only nodded mutely, recalling when he'd ordered tickets for connecting flights leaving the next morning instead of that evening. Unable to fix his mistake the two called nearby hotels for a last minute reservation but found every single one completely booked. America, always wanting to be the hero, had offered to let the two stay at his place after hearing of their ordeal during the meeting.

Germany sighed. "But_ ja_, thank you, America. Are you sure you don't mind letting us stay the night there while you're away?"

America made a small noise, laying his head back down. "As long as you don't eat all my food, I'm cool with it. I got some work to catch up on, but I'll be staying at the apartment tonight if you need anything." He moaned quietly underneath his folded arms.

"America, are you positive you're okay?" England sounded concerned for the boy. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothi—ugh!" He suddenly clutched his head, eyes shut tight and watering in pain.

"America!" England was on his feet. "That's it, we're getting you home. Don't deny it; you're sick. Germany, Italy, give me a hand here." Germany instantly stood, but he took notice when his friend remained seated.

"Italy?"

Italy couldn't respond immediately. The migraine was now unbearable, and it hurt to simply lift his head. He knew it was foolish and yet he still struggled to make it look like he was all right. "I-I'm f-fine, Germany. I ju—" An intense flash of pain, the sensation of falling, two cries of alarm, and then all Italy knew was darkness…

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><p>The world was a blur when Italy finally opened his eyes. He sat up slowly, allowing his vision to correct itself. He was…on a couch? How did he get…where was he exactly? The thin blanket that had been covering him fell off.<p>

"Italy?" The Italian turned his head when his name was called. Germany was standing by the other side of the couch, concern clear all over his face. He rushed to Italy's side. The latter was caught surprised to find himself being hugged. "Thank goodness! I thought something horrible happened to you."

"What…what did happen to me?" Germany let go.

"You collapsed, don't you remember? England and I were worried for you. We brought you here to the house as soon as we could, and you've been sleeping since." So the two of them brought Italy to America's house? Then…

"Where is America? And England?"

"England took America to the apartment and will be staying with him to make certain he's fine as well. Neither of you were well, but you were the only one to collapse. Are you sure you're okay?" Italy nodded in affirmation; the headache was nearly gone. Germany sighed in relief. "That's good to hear."

Italy looked around the living room. America's place was surprisingly well-kept. Or perhaps Germany had kept himself busy cleaning the room as he waited for his friend to wake up. Italy felt a pool of guilt form, hoping he hadn't worried Germany too much. He glanced out a window. To his utter shock the sun had already set. "How long was I asleep?" Germany looked outside then gestured toward the towering grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room.

"For almost eight hours. I'm sorry we couldn't eat at the café like you wanted. However, I don't think you're well enough for us to be going back out."

Italy nodded. "That's okay," he smiled lightly, "We can cook up something here. As long as we don't use up all of his food, I'm sure America won't mind." Germany nodded in agreement.

Italy got himself up from the couch, and his German friend led him to the kitchen. The former immediately went to work finding all the ingredients needed to make his favorite dish. "What is it you want me to do?"

Italy paused and stared at Germany. "What? You want to help out?"

"Of course. I…it's the least I should do for you." Italy could feel the bubble of delight and bewilderment burst within him after hearing those words. Despite being close, Germany rarely assisted him in making food; maybe now it was because he'd been so worried about Italy that he wanted to help him. Italy grinned and asked Germany if he could gather some of the plates and dishes. He did so without complaint.

The duo immensely enjoyed themselves as they worked, laughing at each other's stories and jokes as they prepared the pasta and sauce. As they ate, Italy continued to recount some of their favorite moments and adventures together; Germany politely listened and smiled in fondness as he remembered them as well. The task of cleaning up afterward wasn't a chore to either as they took turns washing and drying the dishes. And with their spirits so high they went the extra mile and cleaned the rest of America's kitchen. By now it was late. However, the two friends were far from tired. Italy browsed through America's house looking for things to entertain themselves with. They went through a multitude of board games, card games, and even a few video games they'd found in his closets. The night flew by with much contentment.

_This has to be a dream,_ Italy thought to himself with a laugh. He couldn't recall ever having this much fun with Germany. His thoughts went back to the spell he and America performed. Perhaps it was real; perhaps the spell actually could make your wildest dreams come true. If that was so then he never wanted it to end.

As it neared two in the morning, the duo ventured down to America's basement. It was more of a game room really: the area wasn't too large, but no one could miss the giant flat-screen television on the opposite side of the room. Stacks of movies and games filled the shelves of the entertainment set. Italy ran over to it, dashing past the bean bag chair nestled in front of the screen. "How many games does one person need?" Germany muttered, frowning slightly. But Italy didn't care. He was already browsing through the movies.

"Which one do you want to watch?" he asked. The blond shrugged. "How about this one?" Italy held up a newly released American movie that wouldn't be available in either of their countries for another few days. Germany grimaced but relented to watch the video with him. Italy wondered if it was because Germany had a preference for action movies and this one was more of a drama.

"I guess I'll make us some popcorn if you'd like."

"_Grazie_!" thanked the Italian as he set up the video, and Germany went upstairs to make the food.

"You can start the movie without me; I won't miss much," he called over his shoulder. The auburn-haired man pouted slightly but pressed play, skipping through the commercials and starting the film. Once Germany returned with the food they'd watch it together, Italy thought with a wide smile, and his evening would be close to perfect.

_Bzzt!_

"Hm?" Italy could have sworn he heard a noise. Like a buzz or something. A sound effect from the movie most likely. Or maybe the DVD player was getting old.

_Bzzt!_

No…there it was again. "Strange," Italy frowned as he turned down the volume. He went up to inspect the television and put his ear to the speaker. There weren't any buzzing sound-effects playing.

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

Except it wasn't buzzing he was hearing, now that he thought about it. It was more like—

A creak from the stairs startled him. Italy paused and listened. Someone was up on the top step.

And just standing there.

A minute of puzzled silence passed as Italy sat there wondering why his friend didn't come down already. "Ger—" He stopped himself suddenly. Something felt off. Wrong. Germany wouldn't do this. He'd have said something by now. But only he and Germany were in the house, right? So if that wasn't Germany then who could it be? _Maybe it would be best if I hide somewhere._ The thought seemly formed of its own accord, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, Italy didn't question it. As silently as he could, he crawled behind the large television set and pressed his back against it. If it was Germany, he could easily play off that he was trying to surprise him.

The step groaned again. Whoever was there was coming down. Slowly. Italy's breathing quickened. _Germany, stop trying to scare me!_ he internally whined. He could feel his palms heating up.

Another creak. The person was nearing the bottom. They were literally four or five steps away from entering the room. Italy clamped his hands over his mouth and nose, desperate that not a sound escape him.

_Thup_.

_Thup_.

_Thup_. The person was standing at the doorway. Italy closed his eyes tightly. _Germany, say something!_

"Italy?" Italy's eyes shot open. That was indeed Germany's voice.

But it was coming from the top of the stairway.

What should he do? If he warned his friend that wasn't him, the stranger would immediately know where he was. And if they found him…Italy had the darkest impression that what they would do wouldn't be anything good. The Italian could sense the ominous presence didn't so much as flinch when the German called out. It just stood there, glaring into the room Italy was hiding in. "Is that you?" Germany was coming down the stairs. _No!_ _Turn back!_ Italy desperately wanted to shout. But he was too scared. Too scared to warn his friend. Too scared to even face the intruder. Something evil was in the room. And he was too scared to move.

Tears began to sting his eyes as he internally struggled with himself to do_ something_. His body quivered with restrained energy, ready to fight or fly at a moment's notice, but the brain just wouldn't give the signal. Muted screams were caught in his throat, their forewarning utterly useless. And as Italy sat there fighting to move, Germany reached the bottom step. "Italy? Why are you just standing—?" There was a clatter as Germany dropped something. "_You're not Italy!_"

There was the sudden sound of splattering, and Italy's heart nearly stopped. "GYA—!" The German started to cry out, but he was quickly silenced by another swift and muffled blow. There was a low, watery, and strangled noise as if someone was choking on liquid. And…and not just any type of liquid. There was no fooling himself, Italy thought with horror. One way or another that was blood he was hearing. His best friend was drowning. In his own blood. The welling tears in his eyes flowed down in burning streams. He could have saved him. He could have…he could've…if he hadn't…

Another sound. Ripping. The stranger was tearing something. It was a disgusting noise. Almost enough to make Italy want to heave up the contents of his stomach and—

_Snap!_ The loud, crisp snap rang in Italy's ears. He couldn't take it anymore! He stumbled out from behind his hiding spot, barely able to stand on shaking legs. His breath caught. In front of him was a monster: A humanoid creature, tall, taller than Germany, dressed in a pure black suit that stretched along its entire lithe frame. Its head, a deathly white, was completely shaved. The creature's back was to Italy, but he could easily see what the figure held in its thin, slender hands, both inked in crimson.

Germany was facing him, his blue eyes frozen wide with shock and terror. But they had already stopped seeing. Drying torrents of blood coated his mouth, neck, and chest, the latter two areas with wide wounds pierced through them. In the monster's right hand was a severed arm ripped from its socket. Italy gagged.

The creature paused. Then, slowly, _slowly_, it turned around. Italy was stunned—the face was absolutely featureless. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. And yet he knew it was leering at him. Grinning with mirth at the deed it had done. The deed it was about to do again. It dropped the body and severed limb to the ground.

Italy wanted to escape. But the monster stood by the doorway. He was trapped.

The creature took one step towards the trembling Nation. "S-st-st-stay b-b-back!" Italy stammered terribly. His eyes kept darting between it and the dead Germany lying on the floor.

Another step closer. The Italian gulped, petrified in place like a scared little rabbit.

Another step. Long stained fingers reached forward.

Italy bolted. He ducked beneath the hand, tumbling to the ground as he did so. He slid forward but managed to get to his hands and knees before all his balance was lost. Something warm and sticky clung to his fingers. Italy looked down. His right hand had landed directly in the pool of blood seeping from his friend's wounds. "G-Germany, I…I…" What could he say? It was too late to apologize. He could hear the black-suited monster shuffle, and before his mind could register it, Italy was on his feet again. He tripped as he ran up the stairs two at a time, but his fear quickly allowed him to rebalance himself and continue. At the top, he looked over his shoulder as he fled. The monster was standing calmly at the bottom of the steps, his head pointing up at him. "_Go away!_" Italy screamed.

He sprinted through the dark house. Only the kitchen and a single hallway light had been left on; the rest of the interior was pitch-black. Italy didn't have time to switch on all the lights. He took his chances and ran for the front door, hoping he remembered enough of the layout to navigate correctly. His ears were ringing with static—that had been the noise he heard earlier but unable to identify. And Italy just knew it was somehow coming from that _thing_ chasing him.

The door! He would have slammed right into it if his hand wasn't already reaching out for the knob. He yanked it open and threw himself outside. The night sky greeted him, and thousands of stars twinkled brightly onto the panting Nation below them. But appreciating their beauty was the last thing on Italy's mind. He gulped down air as he looked back at the house.

_No!_ Italy knew he was fast. When scared senseless, he was able to leave virtually everybody in the dust. The distance between the basement and here was at least a floor's length. So how, _how_ was it the monster was standing right there, right behind the window, looking as if it'd been watching him there the whole time? There was no way it could have moved that quickly!

Yelling in fright, Italy flew across the yard, his legs in hyperdrive as he raced off the property and down the street. Every time he glanced back, the monster was there: behind a twisted tree, beside an untrimmed bush, peeking from the side of a house. And each time it seemed to be getting closer. Italy yelped again, looking for something—_anything_—that could save him. The street he was on was mostly shadowed; instinct told him to run towards light.

There! Ahead of him was the glowing beacon of salvation: a streetlamp. He pushed his legs to keep going, as sore as they were starting to become. Without warning, the static swimming in his ears stopped. Looking behind himself, Italy couldn't find the creature anywhere. But he had reached the streetlamp, which was on the corner of the main road. Not too many cars and people were about, but there were certainly enough so that someone would notice him being followed by a faceless monster.

Sore, out of breath, and barely able to stand, Italy leaned against the lamp pole and slid to the ground. What was he to do now? Behind him was a house he could not return to, a friend he had abandoned, and a darkness containing an abomination hell-bent on slaughtering him. Before him was the city, lit and populated but totally unfamiliar. And possibly just as dangerous.

A breeze blew by. Germany wasn't here, and Italy didn't know where to go or what to do. So he just sat there and cried.

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><p><em>AN: So…I just killed off Germany in the first chapter. I can only wonder how the next thirty of these will go…_

**Featured Creepypasta(s):** The Basement, Slenderman

_Reviews and critiques are highly appreciative :)_


	2. Then Nightmares Too

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted characters in any shape or form. All Hetalia characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. All characters, themes, and ideas based on the following creepypastas belong to their respective owners.**

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><p><em>No. Not yet.<em> America was comfortable; he didn't want to wake up. The sheets were so soft, as were the pillows and the comforter and—

"America? Are you awake?"

He groaned. "Well _now_ I am," he grumbled to the voice. He willed himself to open his eyes and sit up. Sunlight from his window poured in, and by the foot of his bed stood England carrying a porcelain cup and saucer. It took a second for everything to sink in. "Huh? What are you doing in my room? And…and how did we get here for that matter?"

"Taxi." England gave a curious look as he took a seat on the bed. "You don't remember?"

"Not really."

"At the café you and Italy weren't well. When Italy fainted, we all started to panic. You said something about getting him a bed, and Germany grabbed him. I hailed down a taxi, we drove to your house, and that's when you suggested letting him rest there and giving him some space. The two of us then came here, and you said you were going to take a nap." America tried to recall everything England just said.

"Um…you sure?" He did remember Italy fainting and then freaking out for a moment, but nothing after that. Not the suggestions, not the taxi ride, not deciding to go take a nap.

"Yes, I'm sure." There was none of that usually bite in his words. "You were completely out of it, though. At first I thought you managed to faint whilst standing up, but then you were muttering words under your breath. And when we were in the cab, you looked completely distracted. Not to mention once we finally got to your condominium you were on the verge of collapsing." America could only take his word on it. He settled back down.

"I see you made yourself comfortable while I was out," he smirked, glancing at the steaming cup that was in England's hand.

"Actually, I made the tea for you." America blinked. England hadn't made tea for him since he was a young colony. The flicker of memory was enough to make his cheeks flush slightly. "I was surprised to find you had teabags in your cabinet. What, regret the whole Boston Tea Party thing?"

"No. It's just that even the hero can get a little tired of drinking coffee all the time." He accepted the offered drink and took a long sip. England may be a terrible cook, but he couldn't deny the Brit was unmatched in making delicious tea. America never could make his taste quite as good as his former caretaker's, so this was heavenly to his dry taste buds. England exhaled tiredly.

"Our meeting for this evening is cancelled, just so you know. I called our bosses and explained what happened; they said they'll reschedule a conference for a later date. You and Italy need to rest for now."

America put down the cup. "Hold on a second. Are you still leaving for home tonight?"

"Er…yes? I told you I already made plans to depart once the meeting was over. I need to catch the nine-thirty flight back to London."

"Good. That gives us plenty of time." America jumped out of his bed, startling the other man.

"Time for what?"

"Dude, we can still tour the city. We've got like, what, seven hours left?"

"Five," the Englishman corrected a bit irately, "And no! We're not touring your city. You need your rest. Your boss wants you to stay in bed and get better, and I'm only staying here to make sure that happens. Come this evening, I'll be off."

"Please England?" the American pouted like an innocent child. He knew this tactic was highly unfair to use against him. So that's exactly why he used it. This opportunity wasn't likely to rise up again soon. "Look, I'm better, see? It's not like I'm going to hurt myself any more by walking around with you. When was the last time we spent some time together anyway, huh? Well?" England was scowling at the boy. He did make a fair point. But he couldn't. America had to rest, and he was not going to be guilt-tripped into…

He relented. "F-fine! I'll walk around with you for a bit. But we're returning back here the moment you feel sick or unwell, got it?" America, nodding vigorously, was already in the process of putting on his shoes and jacket. He grabbed his glasses—along with England's wrist—and ran out the room.

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><p>The city was bustling with life and people. America led England down the streets at a brisk pace, hands grasped together like one adventurous friend guiding the much more reluctant one to a secret destination. The Englishman still wore that semi-perpetual frown whenever he was with America, but the latter didn't care; he was jovial. Wait…no, that wasn't quite accurate. Nostalgic. How many years had it been since England hung out with him? Too many. The American would never in his nearly-immortal life confess to him how much he missed the good old days of when he was younger. The hours they'd spend playing together, actually smiling openly to one another, not frowning in shame or hurt or anger, not masking their feelings behind sneers and witty insults. Nowadays they found whatever excuse they could to stay away from each other out of fear of reminiscing on things they could no longer indulge in.<p>

The duo visited the park to watch the children and parents play, walked through several stores and malls, stopped at a hot dog stand to get a quick lunch, and even entered a small tea shop that claimed to sell various drinks found all over the world. England was admittedly impressed by that place, so they stayed almost an hour there. America wished to show his former brother everything in his city—he was truly that proud of it all—but he couldn't. It was getting late, and England had to pack up his things. The plan was he'd catch a cab back to the hotel, then America would drive him to the airport himself. After giving the driver directions to the hotel and saying goodbye to England, the American caught a bus that'd be stopping near his apartment complex.

He entered his condo only slightly put out by the day's exertion. He enjoyed this day; it was one he wouldn't forget. America made his way to the living room couch. Yeah, it was a good day.

He subconsciously slipped his hand into the jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper. The text glowed a very faint deep red. His stomach churned. Indeed, the day had been a good one. Almost perfect to be honest.

But something didn't feel quite right. This spell had guaranteed to let one see their wildest dreams become reality. And though he had spent far more time with England than he ever thought possible, that wasn't truly what he wanted. In the end, the two would go back to living their lives like they always had: pretending they hated each other's guts. They wouldn't treat each other like normal brothers. Nothing permanent was resolved. Then again, maybe that's not the point of the spell. It never did promise to have a long-lasting effect.

America sighed, putting the page back into his pocket when he heard a tiny noise scratching against hardwood. He stood. Blue eyes glanced around to find where the sound was coming from, but there was nothing he could see that could possibly be making it.

…And now it was gone.

"Hm." America shrugged it off as maybe a rat getting in somehow. He went to his kitchen to get something to drink, grabbing one of his glass cups from the small cupboard before walking over and peering into the fridge to get some cola. Oh. He was out; he settled for the sparkling water instead. Sighing softly, he poured himself the drink. Between spells, invisible rats, and running out of his favorite soda, America was having one heck of a day. The cup's rim was to his lips when he paused again. That noise was back. Closer. Tiny little feet creeping across the hardwood floor.

Someone was sneaking up on him!

"Who's there?" The American turned around to face the entryway to the kitchen. Nothing there. He waited for something to appear or even make a noise but…no. He warily strode over to the doorway and poked his head around the corner. No intruder or signs of anyone. "I must be going crazy," America muttered to himself. He drank.

The empty glass fell and shattered to pieces on the floor. America's hand was clutched over his heart hammering violently against his ribcage. An electrifying jolt had just shot through his system, and his sixth sense was screaming at him that millions of stares were upon him. The feeling of being watched was so strong that it hurt! It was as if the gazes from every single one of those hidden eyes were literally staring tiny daggers into his back. Wide blue eyes turned back to the doorway.

Emptiness greeted him. Nothing but emptiness. But there was no possible way that _emptiness_ had been staring at him. Something _was_ watching him. America's paranoia skyrocketed, and he never took his eyes away from the door as he slowly scooted backwards. He felt his way toward the small closet, quickly opened the door, and took out the broom and dust pan. He swept up the broken remains, dumped them into the trash bin, and reached for his keys.

All while staring straight at the doorway.

The sensation didn't return, but he'd have to go through the doorway and living room if he wanted to reach the front door. As a precaution, America positioned the keys in his palm vertically before clenching his hand into a fist, the keys' teeth sticking out between his fingers like claws. It was a makeshift weapon, but combined with America's raw strength, it could pass as a dependable one if needed. America slowly approached the doorway.

No one was around the corner. Good. He took a step into the living room. Then another. Then another. Nothing so far. About halfway to the door, he spun on his heel, now facing the kitchen and backing up toward the front door. He could see most everything now, and yet still no signs as to where the mysterious gazes came from.

There was a soft creak, and the young blond jumped. He frantically looked around until he remembered that the floorboard closest to the door was loose. He snorted humorlessly at his own panic and turned his back for a second in order to unlock the door. The feeling of being watched hit him instantly. His heart rate quickened as he scrambled to yank open the door and rush outside, locking it shut and leaning against it. Not until a few seconds passed did he realize that he was panting heavily.

"R-right. G-got to drop off England." He was stuttering. No surprise there, but what in the world was going on? Eyes and mind not really focused on anything in particular, America hurried down the stairs to the small parking lot. He located his car and drove to England's hotel. His mind was so muddled with fear and uncertainty that the next thing he became dimly aware of was riding the elevator to the correct floor and striding down the halls to England's room.

He paused in front of the door. England couldn't see him like this– a fretting mess who looked like he saw a ghost. Well, heard one. Probably. He forced himself to loosen up, relaxing his facial muscles into his trademark grin. America knocked on the door.

"Yes?" A voice from inside called out.

"Hey. It's me."

"America?" Footsteps crossed the room, and a moment later the Englishman opened the door, looking quite puzzled by the younger man's presence. "What are you doing here? You aren't supposed to pick me up for another hour."

"Yeah, well, I got bored waiting for ya'," the other smirked. "I figured I'd just stay with you for a little while. Hey, wanna see if there's a movie on?" And he barged in without further invitation. England stood there confounded as America leapt onto the bed and flicked on the television with the remote.

"Excuse me? Any reason why you're here?" The Briton crossed his arms accusingly at the younger man. America shrugged.

"Nope. Do I need one?" He went back to browsing through the channels. England sighed in exasperation and went back to packing his belongings. He was mostly finished with it from what America could see. "Didn't pack much I see."

England shook his head. "Course not. I was only staying for two days." He put his last shirt in the case. Then he grabbed his satchel full of spell books. America couldn't help leering at it as he lifted it. It had originally contained the page that was now crumpled in his pocket. The page possibly responsible for the mysterious presence in his home. "I'm ready. And since you're here early, you can drop me off at the airport now." The American diverted his attention away from the bag.

"What?"

"We can go to the airport," England repeated.

"But what are you going to do while you wait?"

"I've got several books I can read," England replied, stating the obvious. "Plus I have my laptop and music. I'm pretty sure I can entertain myself for an hour before I need to board." America wasn't entirely eager to leave just yet. The sooner he dropped off England, the sooner he had to return home and face whatever was making that mysterious sound.

"Or we can stay here a little longer and watch some movies. Oh, have you seen this one? It's a good Western film. Just wish it was closer to the middle; that's when all the action starts."

"I don't want to watch a movie, least of all a silly Western one."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to drive until it's over." England was left sputtering.

"Wh-what!? You childish, self-centered little—!" But America merely turned up the volume when the Englishman started ranting.

* * *

><p>One hour and ten minutes later, the two were on the road. The drive to the airport was mostly silent, England still fuming that they couldn't have left sooner, or better yet, at the time they were originally supposed to leave. According to him, he was likely to get to his gate late, assuming security was as hassling as it was when he entered the country. America didn't see anything wrong; there were numerous times he barely caught his flight on time. England just had no sense of adventure.<p>

"So," America tried to start some conversation, "Are you working on a new spell or something?" _Seriously? That's the best I can come up with?_ he thought internally. England's eyes shifted to glare curiously at him.

"Yes…and how would you know that?"

_Crap! Can't tell him I took his new spell._ America fumbled for an excuse. "Uh, the books you're carrying, duh! You wouldn't bring them if you weren't going to use them. That and I overheard France saying you were messing with your mumbo-jumbo witchcraft again." The Briton immediately started grumbling about the Frenchman's inability to recognize real magic if it bit him in the rear. America couldn't help laughing.

"Thinks my spells are parlour tricks, does he? I'll show him! I am working on a new spell to answer your question, America. I think I'll test it on him first."

"Really?" America could turn this conversation to his advantage. "What's the spell? What's it do?"

"Are you asking so you can ridicule me too?"

"No, no, I'm serious. I really am curious." He certainly sounded so. England didn't respond at first, suspicious of his sincerity. He eventually determined he was being honest.

"It's a spell that makes dreams come true. The dreams, which will manifest in the real world, can be either pleasant or nightmarish. The victim won't have any control over which appears. I'm almost done with it, though, so soon I'll be able to test it out."

"Say, out of curiosity, is there a counter-spell to this 'dreams-becoming-reality' curse?" questioned America. He tried to make his voice uninterested, almost joking, but he was more than keen to know if there was some way to reverse the potential mess he was in. And Italy too. Which reminded him—he'd need to check up on him and Germany later.

England conspicuously looked the other way. "Of course there is. I just…haven't yet bothered to look it up." America could practically feel his face drain of all blood. But he had to play it cool. If both good and bad dreams came true, then maybe there was a chance what he was experiencing at home wasn't anything terrible. Yeah. Right.

When they arrived at JFK Airport, England had hardly any time to give a proper farewell, instead jumping out of the car and grabbing his things from the backseat. "Thanks for the ride," he did manage to say before rushing inside. America grimaced slightly, having wanted to make sure the other made it to the gate on time. But England had already disappeared into the sea of travelers. Sighing, America drove home.

* * *

><p>The second he opened the front door, America flipped on the light switch next to it. The dark room immediately lit up. America glanced around; nothing was stolen, and everything was right where it should be. The windows were closed and locked. Best of all, there were no sounds of scurrying. Perhaps the thing really was a rat and was gone now. The American sighed in relief. He relaxed in his living room, turning on the television as he sat down. "Oh. That's right." America took out his cell and dialed Italy's number.<p>

It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang.

"That's strange," America muttered to himself, "Is he still sick?" Surely if he was feeling better then the Italian should be as well. He tried Germany's number next. There was no answer. "They're not asleep are they?" It was only half past ten. Giving up calling, America shifted his attention to the show. He willingly let it distract him from his concerns; even he knew that– he was acutely aware of how much he laughed at the parts that weren't particularly funny. Television could only do so much. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled.

After a couple hours of watching old reruns, America decided to call it a night. He walked tiredly into his bedroom and changed. Normally he'd find proper sleeping clothes, but he forgot to do his laundry again and so put on the only clothes not dirtied: an old shirt and some worn jeans. Tomorrow morning for sure he'll wash his clothes. Right after he called Ita—

"Show yourself!" His sixth sense had alerted him of the staring eyes. America spun around in a complete circle, not seeing anything. "I know you're here." He flung his closet doors open. No one. "Stop hiding." He fell to his hands and knees and peered under the bed. Nothing. And nothing behind the door either. There were no other hiding spots in the room. America growled softly. Someone was making a fool of him in his own home.

No answer. Of course.

After some reservations America cautiously climbed into his bed. The feeling of being spied on slowly lessened. But he was still on edge. As he lay his head down on the pillow, his eyes continued to scan the dark room for a shadow that didn't belong. His ears strained to hear anything resembling tiny footsteps. The house was peacefully quiet save for his deep breathing.

America couldn't say when exactly he fell asleep. All he could say was one second he was keeping lookout of his room, the next he was dreaming about swimming in an ocean. It was a beautiful ocean too—deep blue-green in color with low waves rippling past him. The shoreline wasn't far away, and America could see people enjoying themselves on the beach. The Nation laughed to himself. It was summertime, and he just wanted to have some fun! He kicked himself further out to sea. A playful dolphin swam beneath him. It rubbed against his legs, its touch shockingly cold! America paddled away from the creature, but it just kept pace, brushing up all the way to his thigh, its frigid touch enough to startle America out of his sleep.

He gasped awake before hastily quieting himself. Though disturbed from his slumber, America became immediately vigilant for the intruder. His instincts warned him of someone near—very near. But his eyes and ears detected no disturbance. Always best to be cautious. He waited patiently in the silent darkness for something to happen. Over thirty long and noiseless minutes passed with not a single sound or movement made.

And still nothing approached him. Figuring he was becoming too guarded, America rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Almost as soon as he closed his eyes he was back in the ocean. But now there was no dolphin, no land, and the water had taken a sinister murky hue. And though there were clouds in the sky, their color and size set an ominous atmosphere. It looked like a storm was approaching. Utterly lost, America swam toward where he thought the shore was located. He barely noticed the water chilling around him as he did.

"Gyuh!" Something was pressing into his chest, making it difficult to breathe. America moved his hand toward the pressure, finding, to his confusion, nothing there. It was like gravity decided to intensify solely around that area. But something about the pressure didn't feel right. It was too sharp on his nerves; it wasn't distant or vague like most dream sensations. It felt like someone was actually pushing down against his chest.

America looked out to sea. From all sides, a thick pale blanket of mass wisped across the waves, rapidly approaching like a ghostly fog. At first America was unsure of what the substance was, but when the waters around him slowly began to crystallize and thin white spider webs crisscrossed all around him, the answer became hauntingly clear.

Ice.

The American was being surrounded by ice on all sides, and it was closing in on him fast. He had to move. Where? There was nowhere to swim to, and there was no way he would risk diving. In mere seconds the ice was upon him. It encircled him. The bitter coldness pressed against his bare skin. He couldn't even struggle as the ice entrapped him. Choked him. Squeezed his neck. Tightened! _NO!_

America jerked awake to something very real sitting atop him, its cold thin hands constricting his throat in a vise. Swiftly pulling back a fist, he punched the being in the cheekbone. The child-sized creature screeched, ducking back under the covers. America scrambled out of his bed. From beneath the sheets, the creature glared back at him, its bulbous black eyes reflecting creepily in the moonlight.

_What is that thing!?_ America couldn't in his life identify it. Its hairless, brown leathery skin hung loosely in some parts, giving it the vague appearance of a starved alien. America ran to his dresser and opened the top drawer. Within it laid his loaded handgun, his weapon of self-defense. He withdrew it, bringing it forward. "You've got ten seconds to _get. Out._" he growled, removing the safety. A low hiss emanated from the bed. "One." Dark eyes narrowed. "Two." America took aim. "_Nine_." The creature fled back, the covers settling down until they were flat. "Wha—?"

America scanned under the bed, expecting to find its feet or shadow. But it wasn't hiding on the other side.

Where did it go?

"_HYAAASSSSS!_" The piercing screech was the only warning he got before the monster leaped onto him from behind. America lost his gun whilst being knocked forward. The beast clawed at his neck and backside; America rolled onto his back, trying to use his weight to crush the frail-looking thing. But it was sturdier than it appeared. Now the sharp nails on its feet dug into his backside.

"Urgh!" Springing to his feet, the American grabbed its wrists. He flung the monster straight into the dresser. The creature, however, corrected itself midflight and, upon landing unharmed, circled around the room. America grabbed his weapon off the floor and took aim again. Then, right before his eyes, the creature jumped back and melted into the wall like it was water.

America tensed, wondering where and when the creature would strike. He just noticed movement in his peripheral and ducked, the monster flying from the wall to his right. America retreated to the center of the room and fired two shots. One hit the creature in the arm. Its black eyes widened in surprise and pain, but before another shot could be fired, it retreated back into the shadowed wall.

Not wanting to remain trapped, America ran for the door. He reached for the knob. A claw swiped out from the frame suddenly, leaving a nasty cut on the blond's hand. America hissed at the injury and instinctively retracted the limb.

"So that's how it's going to be," he growled. He backed up toward the dresser again. "If I put enough holes in that wall, will you still be able to hide in it?" America said aloud as he grabbed from another drawer two boxes containing bullets. It was a bluff, of course. Though it was big, his home was still a condo, and he did have neighbors on both sides. It would be only too easy for a bullet to stray. "Or should I just wait for the sun to come up? I've a feeling you don't like sunlight or you would've attacked earlier." The beast snarled from its sanctuary and leaped out at the young man's side. America was ready. "Gotcha."

He shot. A bullet hole appeared in the creature's chest, over where its heart should be. It crumpled to the ground with a high-pitched wheeze before going completely still. Terrified, America didn't move. After a few tense seconds passed without it rising, he toppled onto his bed, tiredness kicking in, the excitement seemingly over, and his adrenaline receding. That's when he heard the sirens. Why were the police here? It took him several seconds to realize that a neighbor probably heard the shooting and called them. America stashed his gun and spare bullets in his bomber jacket he was now struggling to put on as he dashed to the bedroom door. Grabbing his shoes, he rushed out of the apartment.

There was already a small crowd gathering outside.

"Freeze!" An officer aimed his gun at America as soon as he exited the front door. He could see the weapon poking out from America's coat pocket. The Nation raised his hands in surrender.

"Officer, I swear I shot in self-defense. There was this animal or something trying to attack me." Another policeman shoved past him and up the stairs to his room to investigate. A few minutes later he returned.

"Boy's right. There's some ugly-looking thing in his room." He looked at America. "You've got good aim, kid." He led the chief officer inside, America following behind. All three started upon entering. Deep red footprints were marked all over: on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Some of the furniture and walls had weeping gashes torn into them. Papers and trash were scattered everywhere. A vase was smashed by a coffee table. The two officers took cautious steps in. "Wha—how!? I was _just_ in here! It wasn't like this, sir."

"Get outside." The order was to America. Having no choice but to oblige, the Nation turned and left the building. He waited with the inhabitants and curious onlookers.

_I need to call Italy and Germany._ America reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. Only…

"Oh, just great." The touch screen and buttons were slashed by numerous claw marks, making them absolutely useless. He couldn't turn it on either; the device was too heavily damaged. That thing must have ruined it while he was asleep.

Fifteen minutes passed. More cop cars arrived on the scene. The entire complex was soon declared off-limits, the reason being the unidentified creature vanished without a trace or explanation. Nearly all of the occupants argued of having nowhere to stay, though the police offered to take some to the nearest station to call for family or friends, and those that really needed to could spend the night there. But America wasn't concerned about any of that. He needed to get to his house and find Italy. They would confess everything to England. After all, he never expected getting innocents caught up in this backfiring spell.

The American raced down the street, desperate to find a cab or bus to take him to his house. He didn't get too far—as luck would have it, a taxi was coming up the very road he was on. America waved it down. To his surprise, before it even came to a complete stop, the back door flew open. Even more startling was when Italy jumped out. The Italian flung himself at America, wrapping his arms around him with so much force America was at risk of suffocating. "Whoa! Italy? What are you doing here?" The American peered behind Italy toward the open car door. No one else exited the vehicle. "Where's Germany?"

"I-I…he…th-there was…I c-couldn't…" The other could hardly be understood. America firmly clasped Italy's shoulders and pushed him back. A worried expression crossed his face when he saw the true state Italy was in: the young man had been crying—his eyes were puffy and red, and still-fresh tears left visible trails all the way down to his chin. But there was also sweat glistening on his brow, and his cheeks were flushed like he ran a marathon.

"Italy? Are you okay?"

Italy shook his head. It was a jerky movement, America noted. "N-no! I'm not!" His head was down, bangs obscuring his face. The tears fell to the concrete. America inhaled sharply when he noticed the caked blood on Italy's clenched hand. "G-Germany…Germany is…he's…" He couldn't say it. But he didn't need to. Before another sound was uttered, America held close the man before him. With eyes closed tight to hold back tears, America stroked Italy's hair with trembling fingers. The gun in his jacket seemed to weigh down a whole lot more.

"Shh," he tried comforting him, "Calm down. We'll…we'll figure out something." But what? This entire situation just went from concerning to nightmarishly traumatic before either of them knew what was going on. Germany was dead; that thought alone was too foreign a concept to really grasp. And no doubt Italy witnessed the horror of it firsthand. "Italy. Let's call England. He'll know how to fix all this." He just had to. Still sobbing, the Italian nodded mutely. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"C-can't," was the hiccupped reply, "It's a-at the house." And seeing as Italy came here, that meant the house wasn't yet safe to return to. "W-why not your phone?"

"Destroyed," America muttered darkly. Things were just getting better and better. He checked his coat and jean pockets. All he had on him was a wallet, a broken phone, a gun, spare bullets, and the crumpled paper containing the spell. "What do you have on you?"

Italy stepped back and examined his own pockets. "Just my wallet," he uttered miserably. Well, America figured, they couldn't just stay here. First and foremost they needed a place to stay. Perhaps they should take the police up on their offer.

And heaven forbid their walls be haunted as well.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Well at least I didn't kill off England…_

**Featured Creepypasta(s)****:** Bedtime


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